Wizard
by MadMar
Summary: This is the story of Erik, a boy whose facial deformity masks the powers he holds within him. Engross yourself in the world of The Phantom, Christine, Raoul, and the others with a magical twist on the classic. A retelling through Harry Potter universe.
1. Nadir Khan

_Author's Note: Hello dear readers. I felt that you ought to know that I have taken liberties with Leroux, Kay, and Webber's versions to create my story. Certain aspects one may expect from a phanphic will be omitted and characters will undergo alteration. To fully understand this phic, though, I suggest you read the Harry Potter novels as this phic will take place entirely in that universe, so there will be spell-use and Harry Potter terminology. And lastly, Harry and company will not make any appearances in this phic. You may hear a few familiar pureblood names tossed around (Rosier being one of them), but no canon characters (from Harry Potter) will be used. _

_That said, The Phantom of the Opera and its recognizable characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Susan Kay. _

_The Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. _

_I am not making any profit from this story, nor am I endorsed by any of the above parties or their representatives. _

* * *

I was a very junior Auror when Charles Rosier was killed. I had moved to France from Persia when I was still in school to recieve an education at Beauxbatons, and later to train as an Auror. After two years of training inside the Ministry, I was finally doing field work. Some more senior Aurors brought me to help them track down the infamous murderer. I remember holding the heavy oak door shut, sweat sticking my palms to it; I and two other men were putting all our weight on that door while six men forced Rosier to the ground and one more fended off the wife. Her agonized shrieks filled the air, drowning out her husband's unsavory oaths. 

I briefly turned my head to see the most senior Auror on the job, Lacroix, raise his wand. He shouted for his men to move and they scattered. Rosier, too, tried to flee, but a jet of green light emitted from the tip of Lacroix's wand and the killing curse hit Rosier in the back. The manical light left his eyes and it took him an age to fall lifelessly to the floor. He landed with a harsh thud. The room went silent for a moment and we looked at each other gravely.

"You bastards," hissed the wife from her vantage point on the stairs. She pushed the Auror before her aside and out of her way as she flew down the steps wildly. Her breathing was loud and ragged. "You bastards have no compassion!"

"Nor did your husband," another Auror said through tight lips. It was Dubois, the only Muggle-born among us. In this moment, I respected him more than ever; he was the bravest man among us, to face the widowed Madame Rosier.

"He was a compassionate man!" she screamed in response. "He planned to rid the world of filth and scum!"

She was sobbing as she sunk to her knees and moaned into her hands. The other Aurors began tending to each other's wounds, minor scrapes and bruises induced by Rosier's mad flailing. I, however, found myself mesmerized by this woman's tears. Though her husband had killed so many, though he had tortured innocents, he must have loved her deeply. Nothing but love lost could cause such agony and grieving.

"Khan, are you injured?" Lacroix asked sharply.

"No, sir." I shook my head and approached Rosier's widow until I stood above her weeping form. I looked at her and realized with pitying surprise, that she was heavily pregnant, something I hadn't noticed in all the chaos. "I'm sorry for your loss, Madame."

I offered her my handkerchief. I later learned my actions were unacceptable by the standards of my profession, but at the moment, when she looked up at me with her sad eyes and bitter grimace, I felt no shame in my actions. She took the handkerchief and opened her mouth as though to speak. Instead, she suddenly seized up and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She seemed to be struggling to sit upright.

"Madame?" I prayed my voice did not betray me and show fear. "What is wrong?"

She grasped my dark hand with her pale white one and squeezed hard, urgently. "Monsieur… The baby…" Her voice was panicked and faint.

"Merlin…" I swore under my breath. "Somebody! Get a Healer!"

My plea did not go unheard. Lacroix sent Dubois and two others to fetch aid; he ordered the rest to take Rosier's body to Azkaban for examination and disposal. I continued to hold Madame Rosier's hand as her pained wails once more filled the air.

"Shh… It'll be all right…" I tried desperately to assure her everything was fine, but to no avail. Somehow, I think we all knew things would not be 'all right'. This woman had just lost her husband, was now gaining a child, and her only hope rested in the thought that the compassionless bastards who killed her husband were not as merciless as she thought them.

"Khan," Lacroix barked, waking me from my dim reverie, "have you ever delivered a baby?"

I stammered that I hadn't and asked why. Lacroix looked at me down his thin nose. "How many Healers can you think of that will be willing to tend to Rosier's widow and unborn child?"

"Any one with compassion and mercy." If I could show sympathy to this woman—I, who had helped to bring about her husband's demise-- surely others could take pity upon her and her child.

Lacroix sneered. "Compassion and mercy are dead. Remember that, Khan, or you'll not get far in this field."

Though I nodded, I silently disagreed. Fortunately, before I could say or do something, there was a rap on the door. Lacroix strode across the room and answered it, while I stood stupidly, still holding the woman's sweaty hand. I wondered if she was conscious, for she was no longer screaming, but panting rapidly.

"Madame…?" I whispered. "Are you all right?"

She looked up at me, dazed, and smiled. I could not tell if she was completely lucid because she said to me, "Yes, Charles, Erik is a wonderful name…"

At that, the Healers Lacroix had just ushered inside pushed me out of the way and situated Madame Rosier as to be more comfortable. I stood, watching as the Healers scurried about, setting up towels and pillows for the laboring woman.

"Come," Lacroix said quietly, whispering in my ear, "we still need to file the report."

Being the subordinate, I began to follow. Remembering Madame Rosier's words to me, I grabbed a nearby Healer's wrist and whispered to her, "She said his name is to be Erik." The Healer in charge, a wizened crone, nodded and turned back to Madame Rosier. I turned back to Lacroix and we made it to the doorway when I heard one of the Healers yell, "Push!" No cries filled the air and I assumed the baby dead. I felt truly sorry for Madame Rosier's second loss of the day as I apparated from her threshold to the Ministry of Magic.

* * *


	2. Madeline Rosier

_Author's Note: I know, I just put up a chapter, but I've completed four thus far. I'll space out the next postings better. _

_The Phantom of the Opera and its recognizable characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Susan Kay. _

_The Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. _

_I am not making any profit from this story, nor am I endorsed by any of the above parties or their representatives. _

* * *

My son was born cursed. This curse had been brought about because of my husbands unscrupulous crimes. I was being punished for Charles' sins. Though Mudbloods and Blood-traitors had little political power, they could still employ powerful magic against my family. And they had put a strong curse on Charles' only heir. The child looked like a corpse that had begun to rot away in the ground. He had no nose, minimal lips, and gray-yellow skin that stretched so tautly across his bones, one could easily mistake him for a skeleton. His dark hair hung lank around his malformed face. Only his eyes—his blue-green eyes—showed traces of humanity. When he was born, the Healers presumed him dead. How I wished he was dead! Had he died then, I'd have been spared life with him—been spared the shame of birthing such a creature!

When he was born, he did not cry. He didn't even breathe. He lay in the arms of one of the Healers and blinked like a creepy doll. No one spoke for a long time, when suddenly, the babe cried. He made a low crooning sound and drew breath. Charles' heir lived. Silence followed the baby's soft moans as we stared at him, unable to take our eyes away.

"Babies like that rarely live long," remarked the aged Healer who held and cleaned him. "Those that do, seldom lead happy lives. Do him a kindness and choose a name for him, _chérie_."

She handed me the disfigured child and rested an arthritic hand on my shoulder. I looked down at my grotesque child, and felt the urge to fling him into a wall. I did not, however; there were too many eyes upon me. I stared at him and he stared at me, neither of us sure what to make of the other. Naming him was an immense challenge. What to call such an inhuman being?

"I don't know what to call him," I whispered hoarsely. "Charles and I never discussed it."

"The man of the house," the Healer said softly, "called him Erik before he was dragged away."

I wasn't sure how long the Healers had been there or if the Aurors had told her something; I knew I'd seen the dark one with the kind eyes pull her aside. Still in a loopy state, I agreed that Erik was a lovely name and remarked that Charles always had such clever ideas. The woman smiled and helped the other Healers clean up. Soon, the team of Healers was gone. I called out for a House-elf and told it to put Erik to bed. Once the monstrosity and the servant were out of the room, the reality of my situation sank in and I wept bitterly. My husband was dead, my son was a monster, and I knew little of my dark fate. I cried myself to sleep and rested, exhausted on the floor. In the morning, I made Erik the House-elf's permanent responsibility. I could think of no human who would wish to look upon Erik's face.

I tried everything to make him human. Before the elf fed him, I mixed Erik's milk with beauty potion. But it was no use; no beauty potion was potent enough to correct my son's deformity. I once tried some Polyjuice Potion from Charles' private stores in the cellar, but the potion was too strong for a baby's system and only succeeded in making him ill. He refused to be consoled when the House-elf held him and only when he lay in my arms did he cease crying. He was a smart babe, knowing how to get what he wanted, even from a young age. He _knew_ I'd rather him be silent than listen to his infernal racket, so he'd silence himself once in my arms to get what he wanted—it was the only time since his birth I held him.

Since my attempts to change him were in vain, and the only thing I could think to do was mask him—I owned no invisibility cloak. I spent an entire evening cutting cloth and shaping it to his face so that nothing could be seen of him but his eyes and mouth; he could see and he could breathe. Periodically, I checked to see if the deformity had begun to reverse itself; if anything, it worsened with time, becoming red and inflamed. It was a losing battle I was fighting. My son was not going to be normal, and, much to my dismay, he seemed to be a hearty and hale babe. He would not die, despite my pleas that he would. One night, I got so desperate and I began to mix a potion for him. A mixture of asphodel, wormwood, valerian roots, and sopophorous bean—draught of the living death.

I stood over the cauldron, admiring my work. It would be so simple to mix the seemingly innocuous poison into Erik's meal. It was clear, odorless and utterly tasteless. The symptoms it caused were so similar to sudden death in infants as it were—the child would go to sleep and simply not wake up. I told myself I was doing my child a kindness—giving him an utterly painless escape from the harsh demands of the world. But when it came time to mix it into his meal, I could not bring myself to do it. In one bowl sat some mashed vegetables, in the other, deathly poison. And I couldn't put the two together. I lifted the potion and I poured the liquid down the drain and found myself crying once more as I gripped the counter so tightly my fingers reddened, watching the clear liquid swirl down the sink; all the while, feeling ill. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor, simultaneously chastising myself for my actions and my cowardice. The House-elf entered and took the bowl of vegetables without a word to me and once it was gone, my head rested on my knees, hot tears flowing onto my robes.

I was under an inescapable curse. It was called Erik.


	3. Erik Rosier

_The Phantom of the Opera and its recognizable characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Susan Kay. _

_The Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. _

_I am not making any profit from this story, nor am I endorsed by any of the above parties or their representatives. _

My mother was a terrifying goddess. She commanded her legions of house-elves with clear-eyed regality and they groveled at her feet like humble pilgrims. I worshipped her, too, doing all in my power to please her. Though I did not stoop so low as to call her "Mistress" and bow when she entered the room, I spent hours in the family library as to perfectly recite our family lineage. I dabbled in different fields of study and found a love for music and architecture. I learned a bit of Latin. In short, I d id everything a pureblooded child should do. But this did not please Mother, and I could not understand why. But I was almost certain it had to with my face.

Since I was very young, I wore a mask. It was a white cloth that tied around my head in the back and covered my entire face. There were two eye holes and a hole for my mouth, but nothing else of my face was exposed. When I would come to Mother without my mask, she would raise a polished stick of wood—her wand—into the air and cry, "Accio!" My mask would fly from any place I'd hide it and land in her outstretched hand. It was magic and I wanted to learn. Once, I asked her how to make magic. She looked stricken when I asked. I wasn't sure why—I'd been a good boy and worn my mask. Clearly that wasn't enough, but I persisted.

"No." Her voice was quiet, but firm.

"Please, Mother. If I'm a Squib, I'll never ask again. And if I'm not, I'll be extra careful and good…"

"No! Did you not hear me, you little brat? I'll not teach you magic nor anything else!"

Her shouts left me speechless and I slunk of to find Dulcie. Dulcie had raised me, really. She was a house-elf with chocolate brown skin and large, equally dark eyes. Though she'd been more motherly to me than my own mother, Dulcie did not love me, but she'd always been attentive and given me what I needed. Right now, I needed advice.

I found Dulcie in the kitchen, bustling about with several other elves as they prepared dinner. When I arrived, they stopped and looked at me.

"Master," Dulcie said, bowing. The other elves followed in suit, bending at the waist until their noses touched the ground.

"Dulcie, what can I do to make Mama love me?"

The elves paled collectively, their brownish skins becoming the color of tanned parchment. Furtive glances passed from elf to elf.

"Dulcie is cooking, Master Erik," she said, turning back to a simmering pot. "Go play."

"No. Tell me what I can do to make my mother love me."

Dulcie stopped cooking and faced me. I couldn't help but smile; I wasn't sure why, but Dulcie could not refuse a direct order from Mother or me. None of the elves could. She cast her eyes to her long feet and inhaled deeply.

"Dulcie does not know, Master. You ought to be ashamed of asking—Dulcie is ashamed for Master, oh yes… There is no way for Mistress to love Master unless… Has you told Mistress you love her?" I shook my head and Dulcie sighed, seemingly relieved. "Then you ought to be telling her."

I smiled broadly and thanked Dulcie—that didn't seem so hard. I ran from the kitchen to find my mother. After searching, I found her in the parlor, reading a book as though deliberately ignoring me. I stood before her patiently and watched her intently, rocking back and forth on my feet.

"Erik, what do you need now?" she asked, casting the book aside

I teetered towards her and came up beside her.

"I—Mama, I—" Suddenly, I was stuttering out of fear. I looked up at her uncomfortably and continued to babble.

"You what, Erik?" she prodded. She seemed wary as though I'd done something horrible. I shook, trembled in her prescence.

Then, in a burst of inspiration, I bent near her to kiss her cheek. Instead, my mask came untied and fell into her lap.

"What in the name of Merlin are you doing?" she yelped. "Take your mask back, you little klutz!" She thrust the mask at me and pointed towards the door. "Out!"

I held the mask in my sweaty hands, wringing it this way and that. "But Mama… Mama, I love you."

She did not respond and with a heavy heart, I left the room. I was seven years old and would have run away then, had I not found my father's private quarters.

My father had passed away before I was born. Unconciously, I knew not to mention him to Mother, nor did I mention my enduring dream that were he alive, Father would have loved me. In our family record book, I traced his name lovingly. He was Charles Rosier, a pureblooded wizard It was all I knew of him. That was until I found his quarters when I stumbled away from Mother, blinded by tears. I wandered down the hall and hit the wall. It echoed dully, as though hollow. Tears fading, I knocked on the wall again, harder. Another echo. I pushed on the wall deliberately and it creaked open. There was a dark corridor inside the wall. I stepped inside and closed the wall, thus beginning my downward trek. My intial reasoning for following this unlit path was that if I was gone long enough, Mother will be sorry and love me. But the lower I went, the less her words affected me.

Before long, my eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to see a desk and some other bits of furniture. I saw no lights, no lamps or candles. But sitting on the desk was something more peculiar. I reached for it impulsively and suddenly, there was light, I could see the room and what I was holding. It looked like a severed human hand. I dropped it in disgust and the light went away. Then, smiling at my foolishness, I realized it was a magic hand. I picked up the hand-light and used it to explore the room and its wonders. In the corner a bed bigger than my own, was stiff and made. There were books with titles like _Moste Potente Potions_ lined the one of the walls. The desk before me had but one other item on it—a wooden box.

I picked up the box gingerly and blew the dust from it. I lifted the lid and saw a dark piece of wood resting on blood-red velvet. On the underside of the lid I saw "Charles Rosier" inscribed in gold, glinting in the dim light. I had found my father's old wand. My body tingling, I realized I could teach myself magic. I plucked a book from the shelves and read.

* * *

A/N: The hand-light is, as some of you may have guessed, The Hand of Glory featured in CoS and HBP. How it came into Borgin and Burke's posession is fairly simple, but likely to go unexplained. Suffice to say that Erik's home was later looted by archeologists and wizarding historians in search for some of his darker devices.


End file.
